


Transport

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Gen, Loss, Photo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:59:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John deals with his anger after Sherlock disappears again, and a rude passenger on the tube nearly suffers the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transport

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Transporte](https://archiveofourown.org/works/896801) by [randomsociopath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsociopath/pseuds/randomsociopath)



> Based on a photo (included at the end)

Sherlock had been missing for nearly two weeks.  

John had been out of his mind with worry after the first day.

The only comfort was a seeming lack of concern from Mycroft (“I can assure you that should any unfortunate circumstances be discovered, you will be notified immediately”), and John took it to mean that Mycroft had heard from the man. Or seen him.

“Wait until  ** _I_**  see him,” John muttered to himself, a low, angry growl that startled the man standing next to him on the tube.

It was too crowded to move away, so John merely turned a few degrees to his right in order to avoid making eye contact with his rather shocked fellow passenger. A banker, by the looks of his shoes and his cufflinks. 

“Stop it,” he thought to himself. 

He managed to maintain his balance as the car lurched a bit. He’d always had a secret phobia about standing when the tube was this crowded, because he was deathly afraid that he might somehow fall and end up in a stranger’s lap.  Afghan insurgents were nothing compared to that scenario. It made him shudder involuntarily.

John’s eyes swept over the people seated near him.  Elderly woman, just done the shopping for the week, living alone with one small dog, likely no grandchildren…. Expectant mother, probably fifteen weeks along, one older child at home, recently re-married but not wearing the band because of her finger’s intermittent swelling.

“Christ. It’s like he’s on autopilot in my head,” John thought again; “I can’t even forget he’s missing for five seconds. I swear I will bloody well wring his neck when he turns up.  I may even break his arrogant, self-centered jaw. Fucking bastard.”

A man seated beside the young mother-to-be cleared his throat.  ”And then there’s this git,” John continued, silently, to himself. “We’re packed in here, pensioners and women forced to stand, and this lanky arsehole won’t give up a seat.”  The man had been sitting there, hands folded neatly, head slumped far forward, a mass of ginger curls obscuring his features.  He was slim, but not sickly. Nothing about his legs or his posture indicated that he’d have trouble standing.  Didn’t rule out a heart condition or another “invisible” malady, obviously, but the skin on his hands and the state of his nail beds indicated relatively good health. And he was tall, broad-shouldered, a bit too much like another man John very desperately wanted to knock to the ground.

So he balled up one fist and jutted out his chin. Lazy bastard picked the wrong day to be an inconsiderate wanker in the vicinity of John Hamish Watson.

“Oi,” John said in a challenging tone.  The tall man’s head moved just slightly. “Yes, I’m talking to you.  You think you might get up and let one of these older folks or ladies have a seat?”

The tall man kept his head down, but his shoulders were shaking. He was laughing to himself.

“Right,” John decided to forget his phobia about falling for now. He let go of the handrail and grabbed the bigger man by his lapels, dragging him to his feet. 

And then, with a strangled gasp of astonishment, he dropped him again, hard, onto the seat. 

Two pale, beautiful, achingly-familiar eyes looked back up at him. 

Sherlock smirked, and his hands reached up to adjust his rumpled collar.

“Evening, John.” He said casually. “I think we’ve nearly reached our stop.”

John exhaled raggedly.


End file.
